


Anger Management

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Changelings, Fix-It, Gray Asexual Character, Len gets angry when people are mean to Mick, M/M, minor spoilers for invasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:25:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8799064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: So Len might be a little repressed, emotionally speaking. That would be fine, except for the fact that his anger management system involves being a ravening wolf on full moons.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Oneiriad's Coldwave Creature AU Extravaganza, Square: Changeling. 
> 
> (It also matches the "werewolf" and "vampire" squares, but I'm planning on writing different entries for those)

They say it’s not wise to keep your anger all locked up inside of you. 

‘They’ being the old legends, the fairytales, the axioms, and – naturally – advertisements for therapists. 

But the legends all say, you shouldn’t keep your anger inside of you and never let it out, because one day you might come across a faery. 

Now, in fairness, the Fae are extremely rare and curses are something like one in a million, but –

Well.

Fae are big believers in the natural flow of life, of anger, of the way things are, and they’re willing to fuck up your life to make sure it gets that way. 

And they don’t believe in suppression as a coping mechanism. 

Len’s always been angry, but he’s learned that he _can’t_ get it out, can’t express his rage. His dad would literally kill him if he snapped back at him, and then who would protect Lisa? 

And so the rage grows and grows and –

In fairness to Len, why the _hell_ was there a faery ring in the middle of goddamn alley in Central City? 

Len’s only consolation is that he doesn’t fully remember the time he spends stuck there – from the brief horrifically traumatic flashes he does recall, it’s not anything like the pleasure palaces described in the stories, nor indeed enjoyable in any way at all – and that they only kept him for seven hours and a minute, rather than seven years and a day. 

He suspects he might be seven months and a day older than he was when he went in, though. The Fae are like that. 

Not that it matters. 

Everything seems fine at first – he goes home, his dad wallops him for being out all night, he swallows it down with a smile, same as always, and goes to check that his dad left Lisa alone – but as the days go by, he starts getting…itchy.

More restless than normal.

Moody.

He keeps it down as best he can, figuring it’s just teenage hormones, but his anger _itches_ inside of him, like something in his chest is beating against his ribcage and trying to get out.

The night of that first full moon is one of Lewis’ heists, one he doesn’t need Len for, and Len decides to go sulk in his room and get all that stupid teenage angst out while he can. He locks the door in an attempt to mute the noise – don’t want to wake up Lisa – and he flicks off the light – don’t want to draw attention – and instead he opens the shades to get some light from the moon and –

His room ends up totally wrecked.

It’s not that he isn’t _aware_ of himself when he’s the wolf. Oh, no, that would be too easy, too kind; a malady like narcolepsy or epilepsy, something to be pitied, not reviled. 

No, Len remembers every last bit of it.

The rage. The _fury_.

It’s only his ability to _control_ it that goes away.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Lisa points out. “Even though I’m a pain.”

“You’re not a pain,” Len says immediately, but he knows himself too well. Tonight his anger was all at his father, but sometimes, well. Sometimes he wants a normal life, to be a teenager like any other. Sometimes he wants _not_ to be raising an eight-year-old girl more or less on his own. He loves Lisa, more than life itself, but yeah, sometimes she grates on his nerves. Sometimes he wants to be alone. Sometimes he wishes he was free. 

Next month, his rage might not be so discerning.

“I have to go,” he says, lips numb. “I can’t stay.”

He will _never_ let himself become his father. 

Lisa nods grimly. “Dad’ll kill you when he sees this place,” she says wisely.

Better that she think that than the truth. 

Len packs his things and goes, seventeen and aching, with nothing more than a spare set of clothing, a few lifted wallets, and a wolf prowling inside his bones. 

Finding a job is - hard. Normal jobs are right out, of course; there's a great big old bias against the Fae-touched, most especially wolves, and three days off a month gets pretty noticeable no matter what way you slice it. 

And he's so _angry_. It's like he stores it up, every day of the month, letting it pool in his belly, and then it all comes out under the moon. 

The annoying part is that he can't even get a proper _criminal_ job, either. Oh, sure, the Families love employing wolves. Nothing like a ravening beast to throw at your opponents (or feed your opponents to). But Len's young and pretty and no one takes him seriously, even when he explains the wolf thing, and then it turns out that they didn't lock the door he told them to lock.

He has to leave town for a while after that; he resigns himself to the inevitable and goes to one of those woodland retreats that the government pays for Fae-touched to go to. It involves a lot of organic meat substitutes and anger management lessons and yoga, and down in the basement there are cages and syringes and special doctors that they don't tell you about when you're on the surface.

Len is happy to rip his way out of that place, howling in berserker fury as he leads the others to freedom. He has no idea how he got mislabeled as a elfsprite instead of a werewolf, honest.

Hey, paranoia’s not a thing if they’re actually out to get you.

Oddly enough, it's that which gets him his career. He wakes up in a clearing in the forest, tired from having spent the entire night patrolling and keeping watch over his fellow escapees, and when he sits up there's over half a dozen Fae-touched - naiads and elfsprites and sparklers - looking at him like he's got all the answers.

He has to do something with them, so he makes them his very first crew and runs a job like he'd daydreamed when he was stuck working for his father.

Much to everyone's surprise, it works out. 

Len brutally enforces the rules, and they don't know enough to question him, but he forces them to lie low and eventually, the heat goes away. 

(They hide him in an old bank vault during the moon and he wakes up bleeding from his hands and mouth and feet and shoulders from having thrown himself against the exit, and they still don't know what to do about his rage. But they assure him that he never tried to hurt them - though Len assumes that's only because he never got a chance.)

The take's large enough to get them fake IDS, whole new identities, and a decent bit of seed capital to send them on their way. They do pretty well, as far as Len hears, and almost every one of them is straight as an arrow: one of the naiads sells coastline real estate, two of the sparklers bought an organic dairy farm and sell the idea of fairy-dusted cheese as much as they do their final product, and the elfsprite joins a hedge fund. That last one was kind of weird, but whatever, he's good at it, and the frankly ridiculous toupee he adopts covers the pointed tops of his ears. 

Len keeps traveling, starts planning and pulling jobs on his own, now that he knows he's good at it. He never stops moving. He _can't_ stop. They'd take him in, his first crew, they're good people like that, but if he stayed, they'd stop being good people and start being dead ones. 

He's so tired. 

He's so angry.

He's starting to forget which is which. 

His sole consolation is that the scars his father left him with are being overwritten by the ones he's leaving himself, when he chains himself down on full moon nights. He has to; otherwise he will hunt and he will kill and nothing can stop a werewolf looking for live prey to take out his anger on. 

One month he gets weak and goes home to Central City.

Lisa has a cut on her shoulder and a flinch she didn't have before. Len nearly rips apart a warehouse, going after his father, and it's only luck and the bastard running home to hide behind Lisa that repels him.

It's - not a good idea. 

Lewis has many resources and the survival instinct of a cockroach, and Len may be a virtually unstoppable Fae-touched rage monster, fit only to be used by another as a rabid dog in their collection, but that's only three days out of the month.

The rest of the month, Len's vulnerable. 

He runs, and hides, and grows thin from the effort and lack of food. He watches his father smile, greed glinting in his eyes, as he talks about how much the Families want a werewolf to use as a threat. How much they'll pay to the man who brings him in. He boasts that he's untouchable - that everyone knows that werewolves will attack anyone but their kin and the dead - 

It's not _true_ , because Len would happily murder Lewis if he could, but maybe there's a reason he couldn't do it that first month, reasons beyond being tired and having been shot three times in Lewis' frantic retreat to find a human shield in Lisa. Maybe Lewis is right and Len will be at his mercy forever, in body as well as mind.

At least now he knows why he didn't kill Lisa, that first night.

Len hates himself and his rage. 

Len runs and runs. He uses every trick he knows, but Lewis' friends are many - cops, criminals, everybody in between - and no one wants to help a Fae-touched, much less a werewolf.

He's so angry.

He's so tired.

He survives the month, barely, and the moon comes on him. He tries to hide, finding a condemned warehouse to curl up in and hope for peace, but they find him, and he kills. He doesn't know how many - he wakes up covered in blood and viscera and body parts scattered all around - but he stumbles out of there, shaking and sick to his stomach, tired - he's so tired, and there's two moon-days left to go - bullets clattering to the floor as he moves -

"Hey, kid," a voice says, right before Len runs straight into him, nose-first.

A pair of hands steady his shoulders and Len looks up. 

The man is tall and broad, his complexion ruddy, squinting down at Len. He's wearing a loose button-up shirt, suspenders, heavy cargo pants. 

"You need to run," Len croaks, because it's already afternoon and he doesn't know if he can go a step further. Tomorrow, they'll realize that they need to wait until the moon-rage has burned out of him to capture him. Tomorrow, they'll catch up to him and put him in a box for his father's profit and pleasure. "You need to get away -"

"You need a shower," the man says firmly. "Possibly a bath. C'mon, I know where one is."

"But -"

"Now, kid."

Len follows, because he might as well. But the man doesn't take him to a box, or a cell, or anything reasonable; he takes him to a shower.

Len showers.

It's been - far too long. He hasn't had time or access, and he's missed it. He scrubs all over, cleans his hair and trims hit down, then goes back and does it all over again for the sheer pleasure of getting the blood out from under his fingernails.

But night is falling, and he must warn the man.

The man is sitting on the couch in the main room of the apartment, watching some game on television. Len pads out of the bathroom - his clothing is gone, and the man left him some that hangs on his frame but which is comfortable beyond telling - and says, "I should go."

"You shouldn't," the guy says.

“I’m a wolf,” Len says.

“I figured,” the guy replies, not moving his eyes from the TV. “Stay anyway. I’ll keep watch.”

Len opens his mouth to say – no, no, you _can’t_ , I’ll _kill_ you – and then he smells it.

Dead flesh.

He’d thought it was him, the blood on his clothing, but he’s clean now and his clothing gone, and the only thing that’s left is the man.

“Vampire?” he asks.

“They called us vampyr in my day,” the guy grumbles. “I’m the only one who gets to say that, by the way, the whole ‘kids these days’ shtick. I’ve lived through _literal_ lifetimes.”

Len nods, but he’s scarcely listening; he’s too busy being overcome with revelation: wolves don’t hunt the dead.

“I can stay?” he asks, his voice cracking a little.

The guy sits up straight at the sound of Len’s voice. “You can do whatever you like, s’long as you don’t bawl on me,” he says firmly.

“I wasn’t going to,” Len lies, glaring at him.

“I’ll keep watch for you during the moon, if you keep watch for me during the day,” the man bargains.

“You picked me up in the afternoon,” Len points out.

“Daylight’s possible,” the guy says. “It’s just not fun. And I still have to sleep sometime.”

Len nods, slowly. 

“Come sit,” the guy offers.

“What’s your name?” Len asks first. He should have asked it before he went anywhere with the man – everyone knows the Fae don’t give out their names to anyone for any reason – but he was too tired to care. 

“Mick Rory,” the guy replies without hesitation.

“Leonard Snart,” Len replies. 

Now that they’ve confirmed their respective humanity – because their Fae-touched natures aside, they are both human, and only someone who’d never met a real Fae would think they’re not – Len settles down on the couch by Mick’s side. 

It takes a while for their partnership to be ironed out – dead flesh or no dead flesh, Len attempts to murder Mick several times the first few months, mostly because he’s between Len and the door that leads to real prey, though Mick swears the wolf was only trying for warning bites and didn't really 'mean' it or whatever, and Mick is incredibly anti-social during daylight hours unless he’s regularly supplied with coffee and sugar and blood bags, sometimes in horrifying combinations, and of course they have to get the Families off Len’s back.

And then, one month – and Len has no idea what triggers it – the wolf doesn’t rage and tear and beat itself into the walls; it just walks over to Len’s spot on the couch, hops on, and drapes its head over Mick’s lap.

Mick takes a video, which is the only reason Len believes it. Neither of them have any idea what to do with that – werewolf lore, insofar as it exists, doesn’t really say much, and it’s not like either of them are inclined to ask the only actual experts in existence because _no one_ wants to get the Fae’s attention.

About half a year in, Mick says, quite casually, “So you’ve got some anger issues.”

Len snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Just a bit.”

“You ever considered letting it out the rest of the month?”

“I can’t,” Len says, and it’s true. He’s thought about it; he’s attended what feels like every anger-management class in existence. But he honestly can’t – any anger that bubbles up, he’s back under his father’s grasp, and so he clamps it down. 

Mick considers this, and shrugs, and nods, and says, “Works good for jobs,” because it turns out Mick’s a thief, too.

Len really appreciates how practical Mick is.

“You?” he asks, just as casual, like the curiosity hasn’t been eating away at his insides like his wolf does. “Never heard what vampirism was supposed to be a ‘cure’ for.”

“I started a fire,” Mick says, not looking at Len. “It spread real bad. Took out my family, the whole extended lot of them, and most of London with them. I didn’t have much reason to keep going after that, but, well, they always said suicide was wrong, so I didn’t. Much.”

“Suicide by cop?”

“In an era where there weren't any real cops,” Mick agrees, sounding like he’s still annoyed by that long-ago state of affairs. 

Len thinks about it and nods, because he’s been the guest-prisoner of the Fae himself, and he can guess how their sense of humor works. “You felt like you were lifeless and so they made you literally lifeless?”

“And gave me back my hunger for life,” Mick confirms, making a face. He doesn’t need to add in that they tortured him brutally in the interim process; they’re Fae, it’s what they do. “Depression and vampirism are actually correlated – take _that_ , Anne Rice.”

“You watch vampire flicks?” Len says, brightening.

“Mostly ninja stuff, actually,” Mick says, like Len hadn’t somehow guessed that from the _overflowing cabinet_.

Three days later, Len says to the air, “You know, they say that the London fire of 1666 was one of the reasons the entire city didn’t die of the Black Plague. Killed all the rats and cats, brought down the unsanitary housing structures and let them rebuild it right.”

“Shut up,” Mick says, but he’s smiling.

After Len’s transformations have started to become more reliable – yes, he’s still rage-crazy, and yes, they have a special place to keep him when he’s too angry to keep back, but at least now they can measure it, and he doesn’t seem to want to murder Mick any more – they go and get Lisa, the day before a full moon.

Lewis does not argue with the combined forces of a pre-moon Len and his vampiric friend. 

Len will never forgive himself for the fact that he was gone for all those years, even if Lisa claims that she does or at least will, one day. She’s kin to him, so his wolf doesn’t mind her, either, and even when it does – when its snarls are a little to genuine, his teeth a little too prominent – Mick is there to stop him.

“How do you deal with Mick’s pyromania?” Lisa asks Len one morning.

“His what?” Len replies absently, perusing the cupboards. They’re out of cereal.

“Pyromania.” Len blinks at her. “The bit where he lights things on fire!”

“He just likes to do that,” Len says blankly. “Why do I have to deal?”

Lisa sighs like he’s stupid, so Len goes and does some research. He comes up with a handful of tips that help Mick control it, a bit, but to be honest, he never really gets around to thinking of it as a _problem_ that has to be _dealt with_. Len's primary goal is to make sure Mick is happy and comfortable, and if managing his pyromania helps him be that way, Len's happy to help however he can. Besides, of the two of them, at least Mick’s uncontrollable impulses can be sated with the destruction of property instead of people; Len’s always hated people more, and the wolf does as well. 

“Have you two considered getting married?” Lisa asks one evening. “I’d make a kickass flower girl-slash-maid-of-honor-slash-best-woman.”

Len and Mick blink owlishly at her. They’re knee deep in planning a heist – Len’s found that Mick might be stubborn as hell about helping with the actual plan part, because someone somewhere once convinced him that he’s stupid, but he’s really very helpful in pointing out flaws in the refinement portion of the plan, and it’s not like Len can throw stones because someone once convinced him that he was useless and unworthy of affection and Mick finds that equally annoying – and the question came out of nowhere.

“You know we aren’t dating or anything, right?” Len asks her.

“You’re not?” Lisa says. “Why not?”

Len blinks and looks at Mick, who is also blinking.

“Well,” Lisa concludes. “You should. If you start dating now, we can have a wedding in about six months – that’s not too short, is it? That seems rational – which is totally enough time to plan it out right. And remember: kickass bridesmaid, that’s me.”

She meanders out into the kitchen to get herself more ice cream.

Len looks at Mick. Mick looks at Len.

“I think,” Mick says finally, “that she really wants to be involved in a wedding.”

Len nods. That makes sense.

And then, because he’s never denied Lisa anything if he can help it, he says, “Obviously we can’t have it on the full moon, but it should presumably still be at night for your comfort. I don’t know if rabbis do that.”

Mick taps the table thoughtfully. “Maybe we put it on the new moon?” he offers. “That way we can see we wanted it at a particular time.”

“We could use the Jewish calendar for it,” Len says. “That’s moon-based. We could have, like, a fire pit or something.”

“S’mores,” Mick says. He loves s’mores. It’s not even entirely about the fire; the invention of a dessert that involves giant roasting fires is just something that he deeply appreciates. Also, they’re delicious. “Lots of ‘em.”

“We could say we were going with a theme,” Len says, thinking it out. “Get a wedding planner, make them do all the arrangements…”

“Then they never figure out we’re criminals,” Mick says, nodding. “Or Fae-touched. Not until it’s too late to back out.”

Len nods, and turns back to his heist.

Lisa wanders back in.

“It’ll take some planning,” Len tells her, not really paying attention. “But I think we can do it.”

“Your heist?”

“No, the wedding.”

Lisa blinks. “Is that on?”

“Yeah,” Mick says. “I’m looking up wedding planners in the phone book now. Shouldn’t be a problem, Lise.”

Lisa is silent for a few minutes, then bursts out with, “So are you _together_ now?”

Len and Mick look up from their respective tasks. “Uh,” Len says. “We didn’t discuss that.”

“Didn’t seem relevant,” Mick says.

“I hate you both sometimes,” Lisa declares and flounces off in a huff.

“I have no idea what we did wrong,” Len says blankly.

“Me, either,” Mick says, mystified. “Didn’t we agree to the wedding?”

“We did,” Len says. “Maybe she misheard or something?”

Mick nods.

They go back to work.

After a while, Mick says, “Oh.”

Len looks up.

Mick is looking into the distance contemplatively. 

“What?” Len asks.

“No, I think I just figured out Lisa’s problem.”

“What is it?”

“I think she wants us to be hooking up,” Mick explains.

Len frowns. He’s not entirely straight on how families work at the best of times, but he’s pretty sure… “That doesn’t seem like it’s any of her business.”

“Probably isn’t,” Mick says. “Still, that’s the problem.”

Len contemplates the idea. He still has trouble with the very idea of sex – he’s tired and angry and sex is the least of his concerns, and he was never really that gung-ho about in the first place, never seemed worth spending the time hunting someone down for it, but, well. It seems like a thing a lot of people enjoy. A lot, according to the television. “Maybe we could try it out?” he says, frowning a little. “See if we like it, I guess.” His frown deepens. “But I don’t want it affecting our partnership.”

“It won’t,” Mick promises. 

“What do you think about it?”

Mick thinks about it. “I’m up for it if you are,” he says finally. “If you aren’t, I’m fine with that, too. Partnership first.”

“Agreed,” Len says, pleased that they’re on the same page. 

Sex turns out to be kind of ridiculous, even though Mick is _very_ good at it. 

“Not bad,” Len says, after, when he’s still panting a bit and he’s sweaty all over and he’s pretty sure he just made faces that he’s honestly amazed that Mick didn’t fall off the bed laughing at. “Bit silly, but, you know, not bad. We could do that, sometimes.”

Mick nods, curling up. His skin is nice and cool, and he’s big enough to make even Len feel covered. Len likes that more than he liked the sex. “How would you rate it?” he asks, sounding honestly curious.

“Less fun than a backrub, more fun than a footrub,” Len says, after consideration. “Unless we’ve just run a mile, in which case the footrub wins.”

Mick nods. “I can live with that,” he says, pleased. 

Of course, nothing in a Fae-touched's life is simple. There are - unintended consequences.

They don't find out about them until the next moon, when the wolf breaks out of the basement by virtue of ramming itself _through_ a wall and proceeds to slobber lovingly all over Mick. 

Mick finds that hilarious.

Len can admit it's a little funny, right up until the point he finds himself - _himself_ , not the wolf, the two-legged human - dropping off the decapitated head of the man who insulted Mick to his face at Mick's feet.

"Um," Mick says.

Len hadn't even really noticed that it was a big deal, just presses his bloody lips to Mick's cheek and goes onwards to the kitchen to fix himself a snack, because somehow he's worked up an appetite. He feels very satisfied in himself; it was a job well done, even if sawing the head off was a pain in the ass. 

It's only after Mick brings how weird it is to Len's attention that Len snaps out of it.

They hold a hasty meeting to discuss.

"I thought the wolf was supposed to be an _outlet_ for your temper," Lisa says.

"I thought so, too," Len says.

"Well, technically, I'm not depressed anymore - not as consistently, anyway - but I still need to drink blood," Mick points out. 

"What does that mean?"

"It means that if I'm not controlling my temper, the wolf spreads to other emotions," Len says grimly, going straight for the worst-case scenario. "And to the rest of the month."

"That doesn't make sense," Mick protests. "It's supposed to teach you a lesson - however horrific - and something like that doesn't help."

"Maybe it's protection," Lisa suggests.

" _Protection_?" Len exclaims. "How?"

"Well, wolves don't attack kin right?"

"Yeah."

"But your wolf stopped attacking Mick."

"Maybe it gave up."

"Maybe Mick became kin," Lisa says. "Or, uh, _mate_."

"Partner is fine, thanks. Wolf aside, I’m not actually an animal. But why the slippage into the rest of my month?" Len wants to know.

"You have an anger problem," Lisa says.

"So?"

"You have an _anger problem_ ," Lisa says again, emphasizing her words.

"I get it," Mick says. Len has no idea how anyone thinks he's stupid. "It's protection. The Fae don't truck with violence against lovers; it's in all the stories."

"You fall in love as a human, you protect as a wolf," Lisa explains. “And in order for your wolf not to be angry at your mate, your human self gets…uh…well…angrier.”

"But all we did is have sex," Len protests. "My feelings didn't change at all!"

Mick flushes a little at that, looking pleased. 

Lisa frowns. "Actually," she says reluctantly, "I'm not sure if you've noticed, but this isn't the first time you've, uh, gone ballistic against someone for insulting Mick. Last couple of months - six or so - you've been...escalating."

Len is about to protest but no, she's right, it has been.

Somehow, punching the mob don in the face when he’d implied Mick was mentally deficient had seemed totally appropriate at the time.

…still did, actually.

Though possibly the whole decapitation thing was going a bit too far.

“Shit,” Len says. “Does that mean I have to do those anger management classes again?”

They both nod.

He sighs.

Anger management works, for the first time in Len's life. He's still inclined to repress his anger, keep cool no matter what the circumstances, but letting it flare out a little means that less of it goes inside. He still prefers to keep it cool, though, whenever possible. He doesn't like it when things fluster him.

It works, him and Mick. Having Mick around reminds Len that he’s _not_ under his father’s thumb and that it’s okay to be angry sometimes. 

Mick gets better at keeping his blood-drinking on the down-low and Len finds way to handle his once-a-month issue, mostly by locking himself and Mick in a room. The wolf loves Mick, and Len does too, now that he's admitting it to himself.

(Mick's backrubs are still better than sex. Len would dare anyone who disagreed to try both, but, well, he’s not the sharing type.)

They only part ways a few times, after a few big fights, and then Len has to resort to Lisa, which works, but not as well. But they always get back together again. 

Always.

They learn to hide their natures well enough that crews start working with them, when Len's reputation as a good planner and a successful thief finally overshadows the rumors of his being Fae-touched. 

They do well.

They do _really_ well.

The supervillain thing really clinches it, though. For some reason, no one even suspects after that. Like the Fae-touched can't be drama queens or something.

In fairness, they usually aren't.

It's fun. 

Len even manages to be a little less angry overall. It's hard to be angry when your opponent is a perky little ray of sunshine in lightning fast form.

And then they get offered a chance to travel through time. 

Len can't resist.

It…doesn't go well.

The Fae-touched aspects are still easy enough to hide: Mick obtains reconstituted blood from the infirmary, and the moon-cycle is confused enough by the time travel to come consistently, and no one notices that Len's sulking in his room (with Mick) happens every four weeks on the dot.

But then there's the team – then Mick starts acting out, feeling angry and confined, and Len feels like he has no choice but to let him cool off somewhere – and then –

Well.

No one knows how Mick survives the Time Masters' torture, except for Len. After he and Mick have forgiven each other, Mick tells him, not without a sneer of disgust, that the Time Masters have nothing on the Fae. 

Len nods. He expected nothing less.

"I would have come back for you," he says to Mick. “I was always gonna come back for you.”

"I know," Mick says, and cracks a wry smile. "I got tired of waiting, that's all. I wanted to find you and yell at you."

Len's eyes narrow in suspicion. "Exactly how long were you a bounty hunter for them?"

Mick smirks.

"Fifty years?"

The smirk widens.

"A hundred?"

"Wait - _less_ than fifty?"

A grin.

"Less than _twenty_?"

"They're very sure that their induction process works," Mick says placidly, with the calm of someone whose years were already measured in the centuries. "Wasn't more than five or ten."

Len shakes his head. "You just said that stuff about lifetimes to fuck with me."

"You always get weirdly antsy about the immortality thing," Mick says with a shrug. "And - as mentioned - I was pissed. Sorry about the Lisa stuff, though. That was below the belt."

Len grumbles.

But there's still the team, and the mission, and –

The Oculus.

Mick can't let the puppy die, because his understanding of debts and honor is centuries old and as deep in his bones as Len’s wolf is in his, and Len can't let _Mick_ die. He's never been sure if Mick understood how essential he was to Len, how the wolf even when separated could only be calmed by promises that they would reunite eventually, how much Len loves him and defines himself by him. 

Mick, though...Mick lived hundreds of years before him and without him. 

Mick will be fine.

Len hopes.

Len stands at the Oculus and sees the terrified faces of the Time Masters and he thinks it's because they don't want to lose their power and their lives but then the explosion happens and he realizes it wasn't that at all.

The fucking idiots have been siphoning power from a full on Fae Crossroads. An open gateway to the Underhill, filled with magic and power, and barely held shut so that it comes out in a stream instead of a flood. 

Len screams, wordless and soundless, as familiar faces turn to him again and smile with far, far too many teeth.

The wolf howls.

The Time Masters shriek, and the Fae extract the price for their power.

They’ll be extracting that price for centuries.

And Len –

Len wakes up in an alley.

_The_ alley.

The one he came in through the first time.

Can't say the Fae don't have a sense of humor.

He shudders to think of them – the Fae were as _hospitable_ as they were the first time, but his soul had already been stretched out of shape by them, so their tortures had a different flavor this time around – honestly, Len got the feeling he amused them, a Fae-touched wolf returning through another opening –

Wait.

How long has it been?

His time inside Underhill was forever, of course, but in the real world –

It's still 2016.

It's _still 2016_.

Seven months and a day from the Oculus. 

He got lucky again.

Well, as lucky as any fae-touched ever was.

Len goes home.

"Mick thinks you're dead," Lisa tells him after she slaps him for being an idiot. "He told me, then went back to the Waverider. He could be anywhere, any time."

Len scowls.

Well, _fine_.

He has to find a way to get them to come back to 2016.

He’s barely started planning when the aliens attack.

Len sighs.

Aliens.

_Really_.

Fuck that.

The heroes gather up for some sort of grand battle – Len is so incredibly unsurprised right now – and Len joins in. He left his gun to Mick, but he still has his fists and regular guns, and the heroes don't even notice him helping out until it's done and the aliens are fleeing.

The Green Arrow squints at him, Len having shot an alien over his shoulder with a particularly well-placed bullet. "Thanks," the man says cautiously. "Who are you?"

"Don't mention it," Len says. "Really. Never."

Barry turns and shrieks, "Holy fuck, Snart! You're back!" and then he has an armful of red-clad hero and what the fuck.

"They told me you were dead!"

"Rumors of my death have been overstated," Len says automatically, then glances at Mick and smirks. "Mick, stop telling people I'm dead."

"Sometimes, I can still hear his voice," Mick quips in return, grin slowly starting to return to his face. "It was Ray that told him, actually."

"Please stop touching me," Len tells Barry.

"I'm really happy to see you again," Barry says earnestly.

Len pats him delicately on the back, hoping Barry gets the hint. He wants to talk with Mick.

Finally Barry lets go, but then Len is swarmed by the Legends. 

Very touchy-feely Legends.

There are _tears_.

See, _this is why Len represses things_.

When he finally gets back to Mick's side, Mick just looks at him for a long moment. 

"Told you I was always coming back for you," Len tells him.

"Guess you did," Mick says, and smiles. "Guess you did."

The Legends decide to stick around 2016 for an extra week to celebrate, which is good. Mostly because when Len gets to hear all of the stupid, cutting little comments they make about Mick when they think he’s not paying attention, or even when he is, comments about how stupid he is, how useless, how –

Len wolfs out in the middle of broad daylight and nearly takes off Sara’s hand with a single snap of his jaws.

(Apparently his last visit to the Fae came with an unexpected new anger management system. Fucking Fae.)

Mick ends up having to tackle him to the floor. Luckily, the wolf still likes Mick as much as ever and devotes the next few minutes to licking his face lovingly instead of ripping apart the entire Legends crew, with the possible exception of Jax, who’s just young. 

There are very vivid fantasies involved, though, and Len did get to chase Ray up a lamppost before Mick caught him, so there’s that feeling of satisfaction, at least.

“Shit,” Jax is saying when Len comes out of it. “He’s Fae-touched. He’s _Fae-touched_. What are we even supposed to do with that?!”

“Well, he obviously can’t travel with us anymore,” new guy says. 

“The Fae-touched are dangers to themselves and others around them,” the new girl agrees, sounding as if she knows what she's talking about when she clearly doesn't. Seriously, when is she from? Being Fae-touched has been classified as a status instead of a danger for _decades_.

“I’ve always _been_ Fae-touched, you fucking idiots,” Len says, opening his eyes. 

They all stare at him, instinctive horror in their eyes.

“Mick, too,” he says maliciously.

“Somehow, it doesn’t surprise me that Mick is a werewolf,” new girl comments. “His rages are truly bestial.”

Sara shrugs, nodding in agreement. Stein nods as well.

They're all idiots.

How did Len miss this the first time around?

They're all fucking _idiots_.

“I’m not a wolf, actually,” Mick says, though not as pointedly as Len would have preferred. “I’m a vamp.”

“Holy crap,” Jax says. “You’re a _vampire_?”

“Really?” Ray says, looking intrigued. “I always thought vampires were supposed to be more, uh, old and elegant and classy, I don’t know. You’re not really what I think of when I think of Dracula, you know?”

Mick rolls his eyes.

“How long ago did you get turned?” Sara demands. “That’s need-to-know information, Mick –”

“Was it with the Time Masters?” Jax asks, looking worried. 

“Do you even know how _dangerous_ a newly turned vampire can be to –” new guy starts.

“Actually, it was a few centuries back, so you don’t need to trouble yourselves about ‘newly turned’ anything,” Len interjects snippily. Of course they assume Mick’s new at this whole thing. They don’t give Mick even the benefit of the doubt. 

“Mr. Rory, is that true?” Stein demands.

“Yeah,” Mick says with a shrug. “Mid-seventeenth century.”

“Wait. You have nearly _four centuries_ worth of information and experience and you didn’t share that with us?” Ray says, sounding like _he_ was the injured party here.

“You didn’t ask,” Mick says.

“You were too busy assuming he was stupid,” Len adds.

“We didn’t –” gets about halfway out of everyone’s mouths before Len snarls.

It was not a particularly human snarl.

“Um,” Sara says, eying Len warily. Len’s willing to bet money she’s regretting that kiss right around now. The prejudice against the Fae-touched is deeply ingrained and centuries old. “Maybe we haven’t entirely –”

“The word you’re looking for is respect,” Len says, aware that his voice is still an octave too low and that his eyes are flickering a little as the wolf howls and beats against his ribs. “Namely, your lack of it to Mick.”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly doing anything to –” Sara starts.

“He did save our asses a bunch of times,” Jax points out.

“He turned on us!”

“After being ditched,” Ray points out, shrugging and wincing a bit. “And brainwashed.”

Jax looks vaguely ill. “Oh, man, I forgot about that. Shit, Mick, I’m sorry.”

“I’m still not sure I’m comfortable with a Fae-touched around,” the new guy says anxiously. “What if they lose control or something?”

“Mr. Rory did manage to keep from biting Mr. Palmer while he was a zombie,” Stein says. “Not to mention the scientific value –”

“He is Fae-touched,” the new girl protests. “They murder their friends as well as foe, everyone knows that –”

Right, that’s it. 

Len was frozen in horror listening to all the crap they put his poor partner through without him, but he is _not_ going to stand around and let someone dance all over Mick’s self-esteem issues.

“Mick, pack our bags,” Len says. “We’re out.”

That’s when they really all cry out in protest.

Len manages to silence them with a simple, “I gotta figure out how to deal with this new twist I got after being _tortured_ by _Fae_ to _save your asses_. And I need Mick to do that.”

They let them go pretty quickly after that, though there are some very nice apologies to Mick and thanks to Len. Len might get more enjoyment out of the apologies than Mick does, though Mick does perk up plenty once the Waverider fades into the distance.

Len is about to say something – he’s not sure what, possibly something sappy that he’ll have to deny later – when Mick beats him to the punch.

“So, Lenny,” he says. “I know where we should go now.”

“Really?” Len asks, slightly taken aback. _He_ hadn’t figured out where they should go next. “Where?”

Mick puts a hand on Len’s shoulder.

“Anger management.”

Len groans.


End file.
